Batman, Retired
by Ugh That Guy
Summary: Bruce devoted too much of his life to fighting crime, and it's time he retires. But when Young Justice's arrogance drives Gotham in shambles, Bruce must decide between his retirement or the fate of the city. With the help of a new sidekick, post-menopausal Cat Woman, and some other old friends, Bruce will fight the most difficult battles of his life. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

Bruce Wayne was done being Batman. He was approaching 50 and he just wanted to relax, eat ravioli smothered in parmesan, and sleep like a normal person. The kids were taking over anyway, teens in better shape and with better knees than Bruce had from all the running and fighting he did for decades. So Bruce went on a trip around the world. He visited the French countryside, Mumbai—even though he still called it Bombay—and even traveled down to Cape Town, just to prove to himself that not all of Africa was just depressingly poor with every other baby getting eaten by a vulture. He went to Beirut, not for the history, but for the Jazz Festival. He drank dark beers and swayed in the heat to music that made no sense to him, sweating like he was trapped in a sauna.

He loved it all, but he knew he had to go back. Bruce had to show his face at Wayne Enterprises, even if he was hungover and miserable. So he eventually made his way back to his estate, finding Alfred just as he'd left him, sweeping the invisible dust off the porch. Alfred squinted as Bruce approached him, his face confused then surprised. Alfred opened his mouth but then closed it.

"Sir, you look different," Alfred said.

Bruce was out of breath from climbing the stairs to the porch. Maybe it was the afternoon sun getting to him, maybe the steps. How many were there, 10, maybe 20? God, it felt like a hundred. Why were there so many? He decided to demolish half of them. Immediately.

"You mean fat, Alfred," Bruce huffed. "I got fat."

"Sir, you only retired a few months ago. This is rather...sudden," Alfred said.

"It happens all the time. Look at what happened to Val Kilmer. Barbara Streisand. It's just what happens to retired people."

"Even Val Kilmer had a limit," Alfred countered as he opened the door for both of them. "When will your bags be arriving, sir?"

"Sometime tomorrow. I'm gonna go take a nap; the time difference from South Korea is killing me. And get rid some of these stairs."

And Bruce slept. He dreamed about Dick and his little friends, eager to fight crime, comparing battle scars and swapping stories about when they apprenticed under the adults. Bruce wondered if Dick thought about his old man, if he was eating right, not that downtown garbage with the greasy hamburgers that oozed American cheese out the center. It would make him fat, not that Bruce was one to talk, but it would slow him down on the chase, on the fights. Bruce wished he could see Dick, just to visit, see if he's all right. He was sure Alfred knew where the boy wonder was. Bruce was sure Alfred was sending him money.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred parted the curtains and let the moon shine on Bruce's face. "Your bags have arrived."

"You mean I slept for a day?" Bruce asked, groggily.

"More than that, sir. Approximately 28 hours." Alfred stepped aside to reveal a shadow behind him. "You also have a visitor."

Bruce squinted, but he couldn't make out anything in the darkness. He turned on the antique lamp next to him, revealing Alfred and Dick. Bruce fumbled out of bed and stood up to greet his former sidekick. "Hey, kid," he said awkwardly, almost ashamed of what he'd become. Unlike Bruce, Dick was in prime condition. His white shirt revealed the hard muscle built from training and fighting. The leather jacket that had been loose when he left home was stretched tight, pulling at the shoulders. He looked taller, past six feet, since the last time Bruce saw him.

"You must've missed me pretty badly, huh?" Dick asked. He grinned. "You look terrible."

Alfred served Dick a Juicy Lucy and Bruce a garden salad, no meat, in the dining room. Bruce watched with jealousy as Dick bit into the burger, watching the melted cheese slither out from between the patties and onto the plate. Bruce looked at his salad. How the hell was this considered a meal? How did anyone eat this and feel satisfied? He stabbed at the lettuce and eyed the kitchen door. "ALFRED, MAKE ME ONE OF THOSE!" he roared.

"Not unless you want a cardiac arrest, Master Wayne."

Fucking salad, Bruce thought. Not even Cape Town gave him salad as a meal.

"How's the Baby Justice League?" Bruce asked.

"It's Young Justice. And we're doing fine," Dick replied. "We're really learning how to fight as a team, you know? As they say, safety in numbers."

"You, uh, living okay? Eating okay?"

"Yeah. The government's actually paying us to fight crime. Pretty crazy, huh? Never thought I'd see the day," Dick said. He pointed the burger at Bruce. "You wanna bite?"

"Master Grayson, if you allow Master Wayne to eat your dinner, I will never cook for you again. Master Wayne, finish your salad."

Dick shrugged. "Sorry," he mouthed. "So, it looks like you're enjoying life on the...calmer side."

"You mean the Casual Male XXL side. Maybe you aren't wearing your contacts, because I'm bigger than a humpback whale."

"Hey, it happens. Are you, I dunno, depressed? Depression does that to people, you know. Did you consider seeing a shrink?" Dick asked.

"Listen, Dick-"

"It's Rich now."

Bruce took in a deep, annoyed breath. "Listen, Rich. I know you're not a little kid anymore, you think you know something about the world now, but you don't. You're young, naive, and trust me, there are plenty of things you don't know about me. And I'm sure as hell not depressed. I'm just at a point in my life where I feel like I don't have to be _that_ person, the guy who has everything, the guy every other guy hates. So what if I'm the size of Sears Tower? It makes me human."

"It's Willis Tower now, not Sears."

Bruce wanted to tell Dick to shut the fuck up.

Dick stood up and stuck out a hand, and Bruce reluctantly shook it. "Listen, I wish I could stay and chat, but tonight's a little on the busy side. I'll see you later," Dick said. "Good luck with the whole retirement thing."

"See you later, Dick."

"It's Rich."

"Yeah."

Alfred came out of the kitchen and led Dick to the front door. Bruce held up the silver tray to his face, just to see the damage one more time. Dick, he looked the way Bruce did half a lifetime ago, something Bruce could only sort of get back with Botox and plastic surgery. He couldn't help but feel jealous of his youth. Bruce's grizzly beard was peppered with gray, and his once sharp chin was blurred from the second one growing beneath it. Whatever, it's not like anyone cared anymore. Poison Ivy sent her son off to Brown, and Harley Quinn's daughter was getting married next June. Cat Woman only screamed over the phone from her fluctuating menopausal hormones, and Bruce couldn't even think about what the rest of the former women of his life were like now. He knew they were all getting old, and that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce was taking a nap when the phone rang. "Hello?" he growled. After seeing Dick last night, he opened not one, but four boxes of Italian Four Cheese Cheez-Its and drank two bottles of nicely aged wine from the cellar. He hated himself for it, but later found himself not giving a rat's ass, mostly because the worst had already happened. Ask his double chin and the gut blocking him from seeing his toes.

"Jesus, Bruce. You only answer when it's convenient, don't you?" Selina said. "Everyone has to wait for Bruce Wayne, because he can't be bothered—"

"What do you want?" he asked. His hangover was murdering him.

"Where the hell have you been?" she snapped. "The whole city is in _shambles, _divided by children and gangs, destroyed by villains and corrupt police officers!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bruce asked. He wondered if menopause treated all women this unkindly.

"Gotham, you pig-headed idiot. Since you retired, the whole city's gone to the seventh circle of Hell!"

"I just talk to Robin last night. He said everything was fine."

"Of course Robin said that. He said it so you wouldn't worry. He wants to fix everything like a big boy, but at this point, the damage is irreparable."

Bruce rose from his bed and took the two aspirin on the nightstand, popped them into his mouth, and dry swallowed. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"FIX IT," she yelled and slammed down the receiver.

Bruce shook his head. It's not like he was in the shape to do anything about it, and he had plenty of other things to take care of. He showered and donned his best suit, looking at himself in the mirror and adjusting the dimple in his tie. Were printed ties still in? He looked at the gold paisley print. Did this make him look like he had jaundice?

"ALFRED!" Bruce shouted. "WHERE ARE MY KEYS?"

–

Bruce drove through Gotham out of curiosity. He sped down the streets and saw nothing unusual, just the normal bustling streets crowded with people wearing Prada suits to Radiohead t-shirts. The buildings were mostly intact, with the exception of some foreclosed areas. The skyscrapers stood tall and reflected the sunlight of their windows, and Bruce imagined the people inside, playing Pong or whatever it was these people did for nine hours, probably bored and thinking about what they're doing tonight after work. If Bruce squinted enough, he could see the Bat signal at the top of the police department building, left out to rust from the acid rain. To Bruce, Gotham still looked like the city it had always been with Batman—a little dirty, but safe. Selina was going batshit crazy. Everything was fine.

Until he watched a group of kids rob an old lady.

Bruce accelerated and drove onto the sidewalk, slamming on his brakes and putting his car on park. He jumped out, running as best he could to catch the hooligans. "COME BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING BRATS!" Bruce roared as he stopped the chase. He was out of breath, watching them turn a corner. Not too long ago, he would've been able to catch them and beat the living shit out of all of them while returning the woman's purse within less than ten minutes. Now, well, it was just sad.

The old woman started to beat him, crying out for him to chase the kids down. He turned to her and shrugged. "They're gone," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Maybe if you were in better shape, you'd have caught up to them," she snapped. "You run slower than my dead dog! This wouldn't have happened if Batman were still here!"

"I _AM_ BATMAN!" Bruce wanted to yell. But instead, he pursed his lips and turned back to his Maserati to drive back home. A ticket rested on his windshield. He sighed, took it down, and drove off, vowing never to help anyone again.

Once Bruce was safely inside his mansion on the outskirts of town, he reached for another box of Cheez-Its that Alfred had graciously restocked, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. He never wanted to leave his house again to avoid further embarrassment.

"Sir?" Alfred had materialized in the living room as Bruce stuffed his face with fake Italian four-cheese flavored goodness. "I would rather you not spoil your appetite with that filth."

Bruce took a long swig from the bottle and turned on the television. _Teen Mom 3_ was on, and he really felt for Chelsea. Who cared if the whole city of Gotham went to shit? Even grandma deserved to get mugged. Maybe that would teach her not to be so mean to fat people, especially when that fat person was Bruce Wayne.

"Sir, I think you should go out tonight," Alfred said slowly. "There are some things you need to see."

"Like what?" Bruce asked.

"Gotham. It's not the city you left us," Alfred replied. "I think it's best that you see itwith your own eyes."

So Bruce sobered up and went on another drive. Alfred's comments made Bruce feel afraid but excited at the same time. It felt like long term relationship that just ended, the kind of relationship that made you feel good when the other person was worse off than you were. Bruce wanted to laugh at Gotham's pockmarked face, give her a well-deserved "FUCK YOU!", but once he arrived in the city, his face fell.

He drove slowly through the streets, and all the shops had closed their doors. The normally exciting, bustling city had died, with the exception of the sterile streetlamps. Bars were installed on every window, on every door. Everything looked abandoned, left hastily behind in fear of something, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure what. This was not the Gotham that Bruce remembered.

Bruce heard a high pitched whining noise. What the hell? He whipped his head around, looking to see where the noise was coming from, hoping to see cop cars, but he saw nothing. His windows shattered, and he felt something collide with the roof of his Maserati. It jumped down from the Maserati, and through the open window, a hand wrapped around Bruce's neck. The kid's face was covered with a balaclava, but his eyes were full of fear.

"Gimme all your money, old man," the kid said, pointing a handgun at Bruce's chest. "Give it _now!_"


	3. Chapter 3

Kids these days. They had no respect for their elders, Bruce thought. Oh, Jesus. He was starting to sound like his late father, or what he remembered of him. Bruce looked at the barrel of the gun, then the safety. It was still on. "If you're gonna try to rob someone, at least do it right," Bruce said.

"...What?"

Bruce pulled the door latch and shoved the door hard into the kid's chest, causing him to fly back and slam into the cracked asphalt street. The gun tumbled into Bruce's lap. He fumbled with it as he climbed out of the car—it had been a while since he'd held any kind of weapon—and took the safety off. Bruce raised the gun and pointed it at the kid sprawled out on the ground. _She_ had a ponytail. And breasts. Bruce lowered the gun. He didn't know why, but she reminded him of that girl from _Teen Mom_.

She groaned and tried to stand up, rubbing her chest with the palm of her hand. "God, I thought old people were supposed to be easy," she grumbled. "Where'd you learn those moves, Gramps?"

"I'M FUCKING BATMAN," Bruce roared laboriously. He pulled the gun back up to her chest. This girl needed to be put in her place. How dare she not recognize the iconic Dark Knight, even if he put on a couple pounds! And Jesus, all that movement was too much; Bruce needed to sit down. "I AM FUCKING BATMAN, AND I AM _NOT_ EASY, CHELSEA!"

"Whoa, 'Batman'," she said. "Calm your bitch tits. And who the fuck is Chelsea?"

Bruce took in a deep breath as a hand fell on his shoulder. Chelsea's accomplice. Bruce elbowed the asshole in the abdomen, which felt harder than the steel he used to reinforce the Batcave, and Chelsea's accomplice fell to the ground with a thud.

"Holy cheese and crackers," the voice croaked.

Bruce whipped around to find Dick on the ground, trying to get back up. His costume was black and blue like a bruise instead of the rather exciting color scheme of the Robin costume. Bruce felt anger simmer in his stomach. Was the Robin costume not good enough for him? Was he looking to get hit by a car?

"You might not be at the top of your game, but man, those reflexes are still there," Dick said as he slowly peeled himself off the sidewalk. Bruce extended a hand, but Dick didn't take it. "Hey, what happened to the girl?"

Bruce turned back to the street, and she had disappeared. He narrowed his eyes.

"Chelsea," he said.

"You know her?" Dick said.

"Did I hurt you?" Bruce asked playfully, reaching out to his former sidekick.

"Fuck you," Dick laughed.

Dick led Bruce through the deserted streets and back alleys, making Bruce feel like he was being led to a slaughterhouse. As Bruce trailed behind Dick, he finally felt the distance between them. The little boy wonder—Bruce's little boy wonder—grew up, a little too quickly. The worst part was, he grew up and replaced Batman.

To Bruce, being Batman had meant so much to him; it expressed his desire for revenge for the life he lost, but he could never truly grasp and savor the feeling. At the same time, he thought he was protecting others from the same fate, of dead parents and an orphaned child. Bruce had felt like the catcher in the rye, saving innocence through his need for justice, but Dick didn't feel the same way. Yes, Dick's parents were murdered too, but Bruce had made sure to bring him justice. Dick slept at night, knowing his parents were avenged.

Dick stopped in an alley way, right in front of a rusting garage door dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp. Long strands of ivy ripped apart the crumbling brick walls. The place looked abandoned, at best. He knocked on the garage door, slowly twice, then quickly three times. It slowly rose, revealing a bunch of kids no older than Dick gathered around a worn billiards table. Most of them held chipped glasses full of a piss-colored liquid, probably a cheap brew of beer they coerced a stranger to buy them. One of the kids stepped toward Dick, a large, white "S" stamped on his taught black t-shirt.

"The fuck is the old guy, Nightwing?" the kid asked.

"Superboy, meet Bruce Wayne. You know, Batman," Dick said, motioning for Bruce to come in. Dick took off his mask and stuffed it into his belt.

Bruce stepped inside the garage, and he smelled old vomit and stale cigarettes. Alfred and Selina were right. The whole town was turning into the Devil's asshole with these kids in charge. Bruce just wanted to knock this kid onto his ass, turn him inside out. He hated Superboy's black crew cut and cleft chin, the blue eyes and pounds of hard muscle. Superboy's face suggested he was barely 18, reckless and dominant from his surging testosterone.

"Bruce Wayne, huh?" the kid said. "Bullshit. Bruce Wayne is _cut,_ Nightwing. I don't know where you found this guy, but it looks like I've gotta teach him a lesson for lying." He took off his shirt and threw it onto the billiards table, showing off his sculpted body. He flexed his back muscles. "C'mon, _Batman_. Show me what you got."

Bruce shook his head. He already fought two people today; he didn't need to fight more. At the same time, breaking the smug-ass punk's Roman nose sounded very satisfying. Bruce threw down his sport coat and motioned for Superboy to come at him. The other young costumed heroes moved out of the way, clearing out a small patch of dirty cement flooring. Superboy and Bruce circled each other, arms out and ready to charge when the other least expected it. Bruce gritted his teeth. When was the last time he fought like this? When he was drunk in the Philippines? He guessed that wasn't too long ago; maybe a good six months had passed since that night Bruce fell into a cockfighting ring and defended himself from angry betters.

Superboy lunged at Bruce and wrestled him to the ground, pinning the old man with one arm while balling up his free hand. He swung, but Bruce caught the boy's fist, twisting it and then sucker punching him right in the gut. Bruce stumbled to his feet as Superboy doubled over in pain, raising both arms in the air in victory. That's right; this overweight, Italian Four Cheese Cheez-It loving fuck could still beat up a kid less than half his age. God, but when he thought about it that way...

Superboy tackled Bruce to the floor again, and this time, Bruce headbutted him right in the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted out of the boy's nostrils and onto Bruce's white dress shirt. Dammit, and he was going to wear that to his meeting at Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. Superboy rolled off the old man and wiped his face with his sleeve gingerly, his Roman nose was already purple and swelling from the impact. The Young Justice members stared in awe. Bruce looked over at Dick, who looked vaguely proud of his old man, or so Bruce hoped.

Bruce heaved and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow. "Can you just take me home?" he asked Dick. "I gotta go catch up on _Teen Mom_." Dick draped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, and they left the garage together, Dick waving goodbye to his young friends. The former hero and sidekick walked through the rundown streets and into the better side of town. It was brightly lit with young people outside in armchairs, drinking sangria and dancing to the soft bossa nova flowing out of the speakers. They walked into a glass structure with a marble lobby, where the old desk clerk smiled at Dick. "Mr. Grayson, just remind your father the payment's due next week now," the clerk said politely. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"_Father?_" Bruce whispered, staggering towards the elevator.

"Don't worry about it." Dick nodded to the clerk and pressed the down button.

In the parking deck, Dick walked toward a white and black motorcycle and handed Bruce a worn helmet with flames on the sides. "You remember how these things work?" Dick teased. The black Ducati lettering flashed under the bright, fluorescent lights. From the looks of it, the bike was brand new. Where the hell was Dick getting this money from, and who was his "father"?Bruce crammed the helmet onto his head and clicked the clip into place. The helmet squeezed his face, and he felt like his head was a balloon getting ready to burst.

Dick started the engine, and Bruce gripped his former sidekick's waist. Dick accelerated out of the parking deck and into the early autumn night, the orange streetlamps slipping by them. Bruce stared into the bruise-colored uniform. "I NOTICED YOU'RE NOT WEARING YOUR ROBIN COSTUME ANYMORE," Bruce shouted, instantly regretting it. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Was he even prepared to hear the answer? What if Dick hated him for just retiring? What if Dick moved on with his life, without the Dark Knight?

"WELL, THE JAMAICANS THOUGHT I WAS A RASTA, AND THEN SOMEHOW EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS A DRUG DEALER, SO I THOUGHT IT WAS TIME TO GO A DIFFERENT ROUTE." Dick whipped his head around to catch Bruce's eye for just a second. "YOU LIKE THE NEW SUIT? I THOUGHT NIGHTWING SOUNDED PRETTY BADASS."

Bruce said nothing.

They pulled up at Wayne Manor, and Dick killed the engine. Both of them stood in the long driveway not looking at each other, filled with thoughts but not with words. They muttered their goodbyes, and Bruce started up the long, arduous staircase leading up to the front door. He stopped and turned around, hoping Dick was still there, waiting for his old man to tell him a thing or two. But Bruce was alone, drunk on adrenaline and sick with loss.


End file.
